And Then
by Panda musume
Summary: Tonight is a night where he forgets how to breathe. /Rated T/Okikagu/Oneshot/


A/N: Just another brief oneshot to release my okikagu feels and love for angst. Did anyone read one of the latest manga chapters? I fangirled so hard, lolz. To be honest, I think Sorachi secretly ships them in his own twisted way—I only hope there's going to be a wedding in the future *shotshotshot*

Anyways, it's late and I feel half-dead and there's no more tea so there's a 100% guarantee for grammar mistakes and incoherent sentences and possible OOCness so notify me on that and I'll try my best to fix them. . .*goes to bed*

UPDATED NOTICE (8-6-15): OKAY. So I've gotten reviews from people on how they didn't really understand what happened in this one shot. So I would like to clarify first and foremost: no one dies. This is about a night of mutual understanding from their nightmares, as well as somewhat of an explanation/confrontation/whatever you would like to interpret it as, to their inner-demons. Self-interpretation is solely up to you guys, and if you have anymore questions or confusion, please PM me. Other than that, this is a fic that I wrote for my own self-pleasure.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN GINTAMA IT BELONGS TO SORACHI HIDEAKI

Enjoy~

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And Then

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Tonight is a night where he forgets how to breathe.

Okita Sougo is more adept at covering up his emotions than the average person. Whereas the average person will react violently towards something awe-striking or tragically devastating, he will do no more than clench his fists and circulate the moments where time stops and waits for it to move once again whereas the most basic skills of inhaling oxygen and exhaling carbon dioxide is exerted. Tonight is one of those nights.

Only, rather than clenching his hands, they are in the process of mussing through red hair like it's supposed to belong there, as a permanent or non-permanent marking, he doesn't know; but he doesn't really bother to know nor care of whatever goes on outside their little bubble at the moment so he only tangles his hands in red and plays with the fire splayed gloriously out upon him—and he still can't breathe.

Apparently, even if he tells himself to, the after-affects will only be drastically horrendous because believe him, he knows what _will_ happen if he tries and he knows he will fail miserably, and rather than hearing the smooth flow of oxygen and other necessary elements meant to keep his body fresh and young and raw to the very touch, what is and what was supposed to be there will be replaced with choking and snot and no one wants to see what flows down a hitokiri's eyes, because it will blur the line between what is black and what is white in the world, and the good citizens of the country are nothing but naïve sheep and unwilling to take the plunge into the grey and learn of who the real monsters are, but Okita Sougo's only experienced a fair share of the evils from the world around him so he can't really say for himself whether or not something's right or wrong; only goes to sleep every night with the same, senile answer; just grey.

But then he stops for a moment and forgets about himself and thinkswhere _she_ belongs in this world; all dirty dirty lies and secrets and the offspring to a deficient yato, left to be abandoned and neglected and forced to walk out of the rain and into the heart of the thing that'll burn her to the ground; _man_ , he thinks, _what a girl._

And as she is raking her nails across his back it seems like nothing here is all fluff and soft edges and plain sugar plums made from delicate mothers, because they both know the opposite ends attract far much for their own good and the fact that her nightmares just won't _stop_ is also part of the process of sleep, wake up in the middle of the night, find a body next to you, and then let the action roll in bitter, bitter tastes of tongues and teeth with clothes being the first to go alongside the channeling of what they are desperately trying to keep together become a little unbearable as the heat rises and the high comes and then there they are; a show of justifiable inner-demons for no one in particular to see as they share bites and barks and half-hearted threats and remarks in between the glorious dustings of butterfly kisses that include teeth and markings and something a bit more than just _this._ Because nothing in the world can be justifiable enough to define what exactly _this_ is, because before they know it someone has broken a dam somewhere and the one who starts letting their feelings slip is in the form of an iron-clad china girl, in chipping armor covered by cheap paint and some sarcastic remarks, slowly melting away once the clear crystals are granted exit by dew-filled eyelashes as they slowly come down in torrents and torrents of bitten-back words, and then that's when something slides down his cheeks as well.

And frankly enough, once they're gotten too far into _this_ they start to lose their reason; and _that's_ when the Hitokiri and Yato have no recollection of what they're crying over again as they slip into the intoxication of something better than alcohol or drugs or something involving blood; and they do it again, and again, and _again_ , until they are reduced to swollen lips and damp cheeks—and that's when she becomes his saving grace.

They are panting and slick and downright _sick_ , but then as the stars start to disappear into the clouds, Kagura bangs her head against his with trembling shoulders, ignores his swears and protests, and lets out a sound that is _phenomenal_ to his ears.

He doesn't know when he starts to reciprocate in their game of play-along, but the thing is, the more he tries to understand what is going on and why this is happening, he starts to loosen his grip on the facts as his hands tug at her hair and ask for an explanation, and the answer he gets is most favorable because it's _just because._ And then they are consumed in another roar of laughter which he thinks is something genuine and raw and _beautiful_. And by the time Okita Sougo registers what exactly they're laughing at they are already hunched over, clutching at sides and covering their hands so as to not wake anyone in the shinsengumi, and it is something so precious he wishes that this would keep going on for however long he knows he can hold his breathe.

"What are we doing?" China girl says in between stifling giggles and glistening tears cascading down porcelain skin like falling stars, and he doesn't have an answer for that because he doesn't know either.

He would like to say that is precisely why he thinks she is beautiful. For all she is as a rival, a partner, a savior, a survivor, a person who is more than she lets on, first and foremost, she _knows._ She has the inkling and the knowledge of the grey along with their rag-tag sort of misfit companions, and she knows what it's like to lose someone and have the repercussions come back in full swing while she sits back and watches the sight splayed before her before she can regain whatever consciousness and do what's right—but is it right? He doesn't know either.

Meanwhile, he is trying his damn best to not let the wave of laughter rouse a hoard of shinsengumi soldiers as he stares with mystified eyes at the in-between where oxygen and carbon dioxide should be—but China girl occupies that space with her head dipped low against his and gripping onto his shoulders for dear life as her lips are rising into something lop-sided and beautiful while her hair spills over and her eyes are the deepest of goddamn blues with iron and titanium and just about everything hard and painful and worn and _real,_ without so much the need to be dazzled up with shiny trinkets and bullets blazing in the background, without so much the need to pepper it up with some sugar and spice and everything nice, and _gods_ , she is beautiful.

He burns this picture of ephemeral glory into is head forever and lets the lop-sidedness of things contort his mouth into something of its own kind in a bright red haze of victorious and childish (but nonchildish) bursts of somethings and maybes mixed in with the sudden spill of mutual tears that will _not_ stop now, but it looks as if China Girl's grown a pair of grey-stained wings and shining a red so bright it blazes through life with all of the hardships and struggles she has gone through and _won,_ and that only makes the tears spill faster and the laughs more intense until they can't muster anymore maniacal energy and adrenaline, and then the first light comes and they decide to save the rest for the next nightmare to come.

And as the flaming haze is reduced to ember-lit ashes, he feels the invisible weight of worlds in between the balance become more bearable when a pair of arms pulls him into an embrace that is reciprocated and secure, while his eyelids grow heavy with left-over dewdrops and exhaustion as his mind slowly goes statically blank as he takes a brief moment to look at the blue that makes his stomach burn and his pulse quicken before the darkness slowly takes over, leaving him with no more to utter but a ghost of a laugh, brushing against a face filled with ease, and he breathes.

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A/N: Well that was a pretty refreshing break from Wavering. I miss doing oneshots. . .*tears* Maybe I should start a new story consisting of oneshot prompt requests from you guys. How's that sound?

I hope you all enjoyed this story! Leave a review or PM me for any mistakes on my behalf (for the thousandth time, I apologize). Critiques are greatly appreciated!

Til next story~


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